


jeepers creepers

by Anonymous



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Come Eating, Exhibitionism, Humiliation, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Name-Calling, Polypolygon, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-04-07 03:13:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19076320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jeepers creepers, where'd you get those peepers? / Jeepers creepers, where'd you get those eyes?Gosh all, git up, how'd they get so lit up? / Gosh all, git up, how'd they get that size?Golly gee...when you turn those heaters on / Woe is me! Got to put my cheaters on





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is RPF, therefore entirely fictional and entirely embarrassing, representing no aspect of reality other than the kinds of weird things I like to think about, and which you should not read if it in any way discomfits you. 
> 
> i don't really write short timely one-shots like this, but. sometimes it's 2am and shit happens. and there's such a dearth of clayton in this fandom.

Clayton is good at making himself scarce. You have to be, when half your coworkers are, well—

_smack!_

the bright sound of a slap drifts out the cracked-open door, then Brian’s whimper, then Simone’s hiss—

“Shut _up_ , bitch.”

It makes Clayton blush. He’d _just_ left, just finished packing up the equipment and filing out of the windowed boardroom with Karen and Patches and all the others.

Well. Maybe not _just_ like the others, since he’d stepped to the left of the door and stooped over to painstakingly re-sort all the game cards. He just likes things to be orderly. That’s all.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” comes Brian’s breathy whine. “I didn’t think—”

“You sure as _fuck_ didn’t think, you dumb slut,” she barks. Clayton thinks she probably has her hand buried in his hair, those luscious curls grasped tight between her slim fingers. “You can’t just jump mouth-first into everything. You might as well say _oh Pat loves whips and using them on my hot little ass_ next time.”

“I’m sorry!” It’s a squeak, more than a sentence. Clayton wonders how she’s hurting him. Or maybe she’s just grabbing at his dick, palming him through his tight jeans. “It was just—improv—” The way his voice is a little strained, pinched, means maybe she’s got her hand tight on his chin. Making him look at her.

“Such a stupid whore,” she scolds darkly, but it’s a luscious happy darkness, the kind that makes Clay think she’s certainly smiling. “My horny little accomplice. You can hardly help it, can you. Once someone’s mind is in the gutter you always jump in too, don’t you? Always gotta _yes-and_ the dirty stuff. Until someone takes pity on you and gets you off.”  

“Mm-hmm,” Brian trills—it’s probably supposed to be a whimper, but it sounds too hopeful. “I’m incorrigible.”

“You look like an extra from newsies,” she drawls scornfully. “With an erection. I’m not helping you, slut. You’re gonna rub that out before you leave this room. Don’t make a mess.”

“Yes’m.”

There’s a pause, and then her voice is closer, perilously close to the door. Clayton finishes his task quickly, shoving the box back together with trembling fingers and clutching it to his chest, taking a step or two.

“I’m gonna go find Pat and make him regret calling me a pervert on camera.”

He’s…probably an _acceptable_ distance away from the door when Simone steps out of it, looking perfect and un-disheveled and stern. She stops in front of him, though, looks him up and down with an eyebrow raised in a way that makes him blush.

“Great work being the murderer,” he smiles nervously. “Um. We got some—really good film! I think the edit’ll be—um. Be great.”

“Thanks,” she says slowly, and looks up at him hard. “I think Bri said you left something in the room, though. You might wanna go back in there and grab it.”

“Oh, um. Of—of course,” he stammers, as she sweeps away.

Well. Shit.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Clayton’s good at opening doors quietly. There’s nothing insidious about it, he just thinks as an extension of his general shyness. He’s always been shy. Doesn’t talk much, doesn’t make a fuss. Steps lightly, enters rooms without drawing attention. Polite.

It’s not that he doesn’t fit in on the video team—he _does,_ in his way, have the same sense of humor, the same interests. He likes them all very much, even if he feels a little outside it all. He’s not a scowly wry quipster like Pat. Or a screaming flailing enthusiast like Simone. Or even a bubbly badass like Jenna. He’s _certainly_ not a bright and bold and brassy and messy theater kid like Brian.

No, Clay’s just shy, and quiet. He’s a giggler, even though he feels ashamed of his muffled snorty sounds whenever they sneak onto the audio. He feels more comfortable behind the camera than in front, even though he enjoys running the occasional game for Overboard. He spends an inordinate amount of time looking at his coworkers. Filming. Framing shots. Editing tape. It makes sense that every time he sees one of them, it feels sort of cinematic.

Brian’s quite a picture right now.

Face flushed, hand thrust down his pants. His hair’s wild and his glasses are still on. The clothes are the same as when they were shooting—shirt open boldly over his white v-neck, suspenders cutting across his chest in such a picturesque way that Clayton simply _had_ to put him on the far end when they were filming.

It’s only a few seconds that Clay gets, to admire—

to think about how he’d frame that shot, if he could. A closeup, maybe, of Brian’s face, eyes screwed shut, teeth biting at his pink lip, trying to stifle a whimper, to keep himself quiet, to be good for Simone. Or a pan across the empty conference table, professional chairs and open windows setting the scene first before you land on the disheveled boy fucking into his hand. It’d be hard to spare yourself a close-up of that hand, gripping hard, thrusting fast, trying to come as fast as humanly possible so he doesn’t get caught.

He comes, and whimpers, and sighs, and looks up, and he’s been caught.

It’s _beautiful_ , the way the red heat of humiliation pours down his whole body, following his orgasm like a wave, from his cheeks to his neck and down so far Clay could _swear_ he’s pink even to the wrists. The one wrist is still in his pants. Clayton can _see_ him wavering, deciding whether it’s more incriminating to have a hand in his pants or to whip it out quickly and have a hand sticky with come.

“I—I—” he stammers, tongue-tied. It’s lovely.

He should say something. Pat would probably say something clever. Simone would probably say something mean. Jenna would probably say something funny.

Clayton just says. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Brian gapes at him. Still red. Like he’s been caught stealing a nibble of cake, and then it turns out the cake was for his birthday, anyway. Relieved. Disbelieving. Guilty. Embarrassed. And _something else_.

It’s the something else that Clayton can’t help but poke at. He’s normally shy. He keeps to himself. He watches, he ponders, but he doesn’t jump in until he knows for sure. But this time Simone put him up to it.

He coughs and says. “You better clean that up, I guess.”

Brian slowly pulls his hand out of his pants. He’s staring wide-eyed at Clayton, but his look is not devoid of—that _spark_ —mischief—he’s a performer, Brian is, and he recovers quickly—

—he pulls his hand out of his pants and begins to carefully suck the mess from his fingers, one by one. It’s wet and lewd and gorgeous, with his blotchy-blushing face and tousled mass of hair. He gropes at himself a couple more times, catching more sticky wetness from his cock to thrust up toward his mouth. Like he’s hungry for it. The best bit is when a stray drop escapes down his wrist, and he chases it, licking his tongue slowly up his pale forearm. It makes Clayton shiver, the slow progression of that tongue, how it swirls around the tip of his thumb. Like Brian knows he’s talented.

Clayton just watches this whole performance. Eventually, Brian’s clean, more or less, and tucks himself back in, zips up. He’s remarkably collected, now, expression calm and devoid of all those complicated emotions from earlier. Now there’s only one emotion that dominates his face—well, is _flirty_ an emotion? He looks flirty.

He stands, and brushes his hair back—double duty, that gesture maybe, getting the hair out of his eyes and the spit off his fingertips. He straightens his suspenders. Starts to walk out.

On the way, he stops a hairsbreadth away from Clayton, turns to face him, look up into his face. He’s _smoldering_ , that’s the emotion, like he’s shoveled every thread of fear and surprise and humiliation from thirty seconds ago into a furnace, and what’s come out is hot and steamy and useful for possibly moving a train.

“Thanks for filming today,” Brian says, coyly.

“No problem,” Clayton says, and his voice is hushed as a prayer. “My pleasure.”

Brian smirks, as if that was the cheat code and he’s just about to no-clip through this fucking level in record time. Then Brian _kisses_ him. It’s—

Very good. His hot mouth presses up boldly into Clayton’s. Clay can taste the alkaline bitter-wetness, the traces of Brian on his own tongue. He’s never imagined what Brian would _taste_ like before, even among all the other imaginings, the softness of his lips and of his cheek and how it feels to card fingers through that thick shock of hair—

a hypothesis he finds that he’s testing before he even realizes it—

it’s _ages_ before Brian pulls back and rests a hand on the center of Clayton’s chest, taps a finger once.

“You didn’t remind anyone else to wear old-timey detective clothes, did you, Clay.”

“No,” Clayton admits. No, that late-night drunk text _reminding_ Brian had been. Well. Impromtu. They’d talked about dressing up, months ago, when he pitched the game. But he knew no one would remember, and he’d forgotten himself until the night before. He’d been too anxious, to groupchat everyone. The film’d be good, if they were all fancy again, but—no one had _time—_ it was like midnight—just a few hours to find period clothes? No one would have anything. Pat certainly wouldn’t, and he’d snark but secretly feel guilty. Patches would apologize profusely. Legs wouldn’t even try. Simone _might_ , but she’d ream him for not giving her enough prep time. But Brian—

Brian would have something. He just knew it. He _knew_ Brian would have something to wear, and yeah maybe it was half a prank but maybe it was also just half that Clayton wanted to know what it would be.

“Just wanted to make me look silly, mm? So _mean._ ”

Brian’s eyes are wide and mischievous. He’s in his element now, Clayton thinks. Now that he knows someone _wants_ him. That’s always what Pat says. Don’t let Brian get the upper hand. He’s a cocky bitch. Once he’s got you where he wants you, he’ll run roughshod over you. You’ve gotta keep him in line. In his place. Half of these things, Patrick’s said to Clayton’s face, even.

“You don’t look silly,” Clayton gets out, earnestly. He’s not like Pat. He’s doesn’t mind being taken for a ride.

“Well. Feel free to let me know what you’d like to see me wearing tomorrow,” Brian quips, and kisses up chastely once more into Clayton’s beard, and leaves.

 


	2. jeeze louise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _now I gotta cut loose / footloose / kick off the sunday shoes / please, louise, pull me off of my knees_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Clay doesn’t follow up on that day. He figures it was just—a joke, maybe, or a foolhardy rush of adrenaline and thwarted embarrassment. Brian’s a little impulsive, like that. So Clay doesn’t pursue. Brian does, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp we're dusting out all the half-finished fics tonight, kids. cheers! - fish

“We’ve only got the studio for another hour, guys,” Pat drawls, over the high-pitched bickering. 

Jenna and Brian barely look up from their disagreement about blocking—something about three-quarter angles to camera and their relative merits—but at least Simone shakes herself out of the fray, nods over at Pat and Clayton, and gives a little cough. The two tawny-haired producers snap their heads up in eerie synchrony, kind of a weird children-of-the-corn vibe, with their identical attentive gazes. Simone points. 

“Pat’s right. Let’s fuckin’ _move,_ then. Girls get the bathroom first. We need to do makeup.” 

She plucks Jenna’s elbow, and pulls her off to change into their black turtlenecks and pick out some fire lip colors and do whatever else they do to look camera-ready for Video Game Theater. It’s a full cast today, so the room’s already stuffy from all five of them being in close quarters, hammering out last-minute stage directions and making sure everything is pronounceable. 

Clayton pretends to ready the camera, though he’s had it ready for a solid twenty-five minutes, and in truth he’s getting kinda antsy. There’s _no way_ they’re going to get all the takes they need in time today. He doesn’t mention it, though. 

Brian’s maybe feeling it too, because he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet impatiently. “Y’all mind if I just change here? While the girls go. I don’t need any makeup.”

He gets the distinct impression that Brian’s asking Pat for permission, although it’s Clayton that he’s looking at. Pat shrugs and says _sure,_ fiddling with his phone. Clay feels an entirely inappropriate thrill roll down his spine, and nods, and looks politely away. 

Not _away_ away. That’d also be weird. Just _sorta_ away, so it only falls on the periphery of his vision, when Brian’s hands start unbuttoning his shirt, shucking it quickly. He’s got on a white tee, underneath the blue button-up, and that comes off too, quick as a flash, right over his head. 

Clayton’s not _watching_ , but he’s surprised anyway when the pants come next. Of course, Brian needs to change pants, neutral black slacks or jeans are the costume of choice, not faded shorts. But it’s so surprising when he just unbuttons and slides them down unceremoniously, immediate, without pulling on his shirt first. It’s been, like, six seconds flat, and Clay’s coworker is nearly naked in the studio, save for a pair of— 

_yikes._

He blushes hot, and really _does_ look away, then, quick sharp, because Brian is wearing lime green panties, and _that_ doesn’t—that’s not—um. Of course it’s Brian’s prerogative, what he chooses to wear, and it’s really none of Clayton’s business, however good it looks on him. 

The sudden movement, Clay’s turning and his hitch of breath must catch Pat’s attention, though. He looks up from his phone with a little head tilt. “Huh?” 

“Nothing.” Clayton thinks his voice sounds just about normal, really, but it must be a _little_ strained because Pat’s brow only furrows a touch deeper. He scans the room, turns, observes Brian rummaging around in his bag, unconcernedly naked and humming a cheerful little tune to himself. Clayton watches him roll his eyes. 

“Bri, put some fucking clothes on,” Pat scolds sharply. “Before Clay finishes texting 911 to HR.”  

“Sorry, Clayton,” Brian trills innocently, and puts his feet in his jeans. He, um, _hops_ to pull them up, which maybe is just about getting them on quickly. 

“It’s okay,” Clayton finds himself saying, before he even thinks. “It doesn’t bother me.” 

Pat looks at him a long moment, raises an eyebrow. It’s...thoughtful, his expression. Just shy of knowing. It makes Clayton blush worse. He looks away, which in this case means looking at Brian, who is still shirtless and who— 

is _smirking_ , and has red-purple bruises trailing down his pale chest— 

it’s hard to look at them without wondering who put them there, and how— 

Pat, maybe? He certainly doesn’t look surprised about them. 

Blood rushes to a couple places where it’s very much not supposed to, at work, and Clayton dips his chin to study the floor. Pat’s got on his usual combat boots. They’re interesting enough to look at, for a second. It’s a shame that the internet’s wild about feet. There’s a cute little Gill and Gilbert video intro to be had in there, with Pat’s black boots and Brian’s cute beat-up wild-colored converse the most visually distinctive facet between them. Clay can kind of think of how he’d frame it, if it weren’t just going to get shot down in pitches because, yknow. Foot stuff.

“You best tell him, Clay, if he bothers you,” Pat murmurs, quiet, but conversational. “He’s got no shame.” 

“I do _too_ ,” Brian pouts, before Clayton can respond to this. He’s glad he doesn’t really have to try. Pat snorts, and Clayton looks up to find him turning around, pulling off his shirt too, changing into his turtleneck with much more modesty. 

Although...even from the back it’s still easy to see the muscles flexing in his lean torso. He’s not devoid of marks, himself. His don’t look like bites, though. Quick as they’re visible, they’re gone, under a veil of dark fabric, and Clayton can’t really get the measure of them. 

“I do _too_ have shame,” Brian repeats, when he’s ignored. 

“You know you don’t, Bri,” Pat sighs, brushing his hair back. “You’re really overstepping, here. So either put your shirt on or ask nicely if he wants to touch you.” 

This statement is— 

a little overwhelming, actually, in the stuffy room, in the midst of cataloging these new marks into his understanding of his coworkers’ persons, in the furor of blood rushing hither and thither, in the glow of the way Brian is _looking_ at him. Clayton takes a breath, closes his eyes. He needs to focus on being efficient, on getting his footage, here in just a minute, when the girls get back. He can’t think about— 

“— _would_ you like to, Clay?” 

Brian’s voice is close now. Maybe two steps away. The way it bounces suggests he’s rocking on the balls of his feet again. 

“I would,” he gets out, without opening his eyes. He feels a bit like a man confronting a medusa. “But not right now please. We only have—” he checks his watch. “Forty-seven minutes, for all these takes.” 

Pat gives a little peal of bright laughter, which Clayton finds embarrassing and also relieving, because he really doesn’t mean to piss Patrick off, or Brian, or Simone, or _anyone_.

“You heard him, kid. It’s go time. Get dressed. God grant me such self-control.”

When he peeks an eye open, Brian has his shirt and is darting a look at him that’s a little difficult to interpret. Clay doesn’t have time to figure it out, though. The girls come back in, and Pat holsters his smile, and they have things to _do_ this afternoon, if you please. 

 

* * *

  
It’s not terribly difficult, to maintain decorum for a few hours, but Clayton does eventually break down to excuse himself to the restroom. It’s not really his fault, he reasons. The mental image of Brian in light green lace is striking, would be striking to _anyone_ , he imagines, and particularly if it was sprung upon one unexpectedly in the middle of a workday. 

Once he’s finished—well, _that_ —and washed and dried his hands, he pauses at the bathroom counter. On a whim, a hunch maybe, he checks the office chat. Usually he stays off it at the office—no point when you can just drop by someone’s desk and have a nice chat instead—and it kinda fucks with his productivity to have a chat window open all the time. 

So it’s not unusual that he’s got a few direct messages he hasn’t opened, hours old. 

 

 

> **bdg (3:45:05): comments on my sartorial choices today?**
> 
> **bdg (4:10:10): sorry if i was too weird during vgt**
> 
> **bdg (4:45:20): i really hope i didn’t make you uncomfortable. lmk. sorry**

Clay thumbs the screen, quickly, heart tripping a bit. 

 

 

> **clay (5:03:17): you didn’t.** **  
> ** **clay (5:03:50): it’s really fine.** **  
> ** **clay (5:04:20): i meant what i said about wanting to.**

Brian must not have similar qualms about workday chatting, because as Clayton stares at the phone in his hands, he sees immediately _bdg is typing._

 

 

> **bdg (5:05:01): lol jeus christ clay i nearly jumped off the roof** ****  
> **clay (5:05:10): well don’t do that.** ****  
> **bdg (5:05:30): are you still at work?** ****  
> **clay (5:05:33): yup** ****  
> **bdg (5:05:40): staying for a while?** **  
> ** **clay (5:06:00): probably until around six.** **  
> ** **bdg (5:06:02): good**

* * *

 

 

People file out of the office pretty quick on Fridays, and Clayton usually too, because he’s an early riser and he’s not trying to live a life of eighty-hour workweeks. 

But Pat and Brian usually stay late, ‘cause they’re always getting in late, and Friday’s no exception. So it’s not surprising that when Clayton resettles at his desk he finds that they’re the only ones left in the office. It’s not surprising that they’re both at their desks, busying themselves with their independent projects, paying Clayton no mind. Whatever the messages say. 

It’s not surprising, when they keep at it for another hour or so, just working.

It _is_ a bit surprising, when Brian gets up and moseys over and settles himself on Pat’s lap. 

The taller man wraps an arm around him, casually—Clayton can see it, from where he is, because he’s on the end of the bank of computers and he looks right down the hall, perpendicular to Pat’s desk. He can see _exactly_ how the curves of their hips fit together, how Pat draws the smaller man close. 

They work together for a few minutes, chatting absently, Brian jabbing a finger at the screen and offering his advice. It’s really— _sweet_ —intimate, how casually they’re talking, how smoothly Brian shifts his weight when Patrick budges him up a bit, how Brian reaches familiarly for the mouse and Pat slides an arm around him to reach the keyboard. 

Then Brian taps Pat, and says something, and they both _look_ at Clayton. 

He drops his gaze immediately, face red. He hadn’t meant to— 

well, he doesn’t know what, exactly. Stare, he supposes. He darts a quick look up again, to see if they’re laughing at him, or annoyed, or— 

nope, nope, they’re _kissing_. Brian’s flipped himself around entirely, is straddling Pat’s lap with his hands on his shoulders and leaning into it with gusto. Patrick’s a bit more reserved, maybe, or maybe it’s just hard to tell through the dark curtain of hair, but he’s certainly cradling one hand around Brian’s back to hold him up and the other’s working Brian’s shirt-buttons open. 

Well now that’s— 

 _impossible_ to look away from, in Clayton’s opinion, the way Patrick’s hand slides into Brian’s shirt and down his chest and maybe thumbs at those dark little mouth-marks he saw earlier— 

Brian makes an obscene squeaking sound that turns the tips of Clayton’s ears _bright_ red— 

Pat grabs his chin and hushes him rather sternly, before kissing him again. 

Clay’s bald-faced staring now, because of course this must be— 

 _yeah_ , the way Brian’s gaze darts up, wicked, at him, and then back down to his business— 

this is _for Clayton_ , and doesn’t that just make his heart jump with thirsty, thudding beats. 

Pat stands up, then, pushing the smaller man off, tucking their hips together for a moment as he shuts off his computer. Looks like they’re going home. Clayton sighs, half in relief, half regret, but which half should come to the fore he doesn’t really know. He watches Patrick shoulder his messenger bag and yank Brian around by the hair, pressing into him, pulling up his mouth for another kiss. He says something down into Brian’s face, and he laughs a silvery laugh. 

Then, he spins Brian around so he’s facing Clayton, shoves him a touch, so he comes stumbling two steps. While he’s righting himself, Pat gives Clayton a jaunty wave— 

he’s red-faced-bashful, but he’s still got that broad, roguish smile— 

and heads off, alone, toward the bank of elevators. 

* * *

 

Before Clayton can really process all of this rationally, Brian’s _there_ , in the flesh, pressing his hip into Clayton’s desk and smiling and his shirt’s open— 

where’d that undershirt _go_ , anyway?—

and he’s looking quite disheveled, grinning like an imp and confident as anything. Gosh, if Clayton didn’t know he’d been sending anxious-embarrassed apology texts all afternoon, you’d never be able to tell. He looks like he’s never been anxious a day in his life. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ hot stuff?” Brian winks. 

“That I don’t know what sartorial means,” Clayton admits. “Although I guess I could google it.”  

Brian laughs, and it’s a funny sound, a surprised little tinkle that breaks through the grin on his face, shakes out something a little different. 

“Oh. It’s, um. It means clothes-related. Sorry. It’s a fancy-ass word. I do that sometimes.” He smiles. “When I’m nervous.” 

“Huh,” Clayton nods. “Sartorial. Clothes. Learned something today.” 

He observes Brian bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’d always taken the bouncing to be bottled-up energy, bridled enthusiasm, the vibrations of the dynamo core that keeps Brian moving through the world with lightning speed. But maybe it’s nerves, actually.

“ _God,_ Clayton, you’re gonna give me a heart attack.” Brian runs his hand through his hair, throws him a little forlorn glance. “Are you actually _interested_ , or are you just really friggin’ good at rolling with awkward situations?”

Clayton blinks, sort of nonplussed. “Of course I’m interested. And I liked your sartorial choices. They gave me a super embarrassing work erection, that I had to go deal with only like an hour ago, and now I think I have another one?”

Brian smiles brilliantly, like a kid who’s just been told they were good enough for ice cream, and wipes a theatrical hand across his brow. “Jeez _louise_ that’s a relief, Clay. I was afraid I—” 

He doesn’t finish the sentence, though, just hops himself up on Clayton’s desk—it’s high, it’s a jump to get up there, but he manages it, shoves the keyboard aside and lets his feet dangle. His knees are spread apart, not-wide but not-together. His shorts are entirely modest, but Clayton finds himself thinking about what he’s wearing underneath, and that’s interesting, in and of itself. 

“You said you wanted to touch me,” Brian prompts, eagerly. “But not during work. So it’s after six. Here I am.” 

Clayton giggles nervously, because he doesn’t really know what to do with this, and settles on putting his hands on Brian’s hips. They’re pleasant to hold. His thumbs dip under the fabric of the shirt, find smooth skin to press on. He brushes against it. 

“You’re so _shy_.” The knees waggle, feet kicking innocently. “You can touch anything you want.” 

“Won’t Pat get mad,” Clayton murmurs, sliding one hand up just a few centimeters, to grasp at the slim waist. Brian’s muscular, though soft. It makes sense. He’s always moving, bending and leaping and flexing and every other thing. 

“No, no, he’s streaming tonight.” Brian cocks his head. “But he knows I’m getting into trouble with you. Didn’t you see?”

“Yeah.” Clay doesn’t know what exactly he _did_ see, though. Steamy kissing, and Pat packing up, and then that—half-shy half-knowing _wink_ —that reckless shove— 

“He told me to tell you he’s always happy to oblige a fellow creative,” Brian recites. “And to ask him, if you ever want the user manual.” 

Pat always cracks Clayton up, even when he’s nervous— _especially_ when he’s nervous—and this is no exception, so he finds himself snickering as he thumbs gently down Brian’s sides. 

“He thinks you seem like a guy who reads the instructions first,” Brian continues on, leaning back, arching himself up a little into Clayton’s touches. “I told him I’m not so sure.” 

“What do _you_ think of me?” 

“I think you want to fuck me,” Brian quirks a smile, dispenses with the metaphors. “Or at least, you were _real_ into watching me jerk off. Simone said something—” he pauses, blushes. “Well. She said, um. Something like. I should look into it.” 

The shy little waver, Clayton finds he likes. He pulls a hand up to touch Brian’s cheek, as if he could coerce that rosy smatter to stay there, to heat his palm. 

“What’d she say, really?” 

Oh yes, that’s nice. He dips his chip more, more blushing, drops his gaze.

“She called me a filthy little slut trying to sit on every cock in the office,” Brian says to his knees. It’s an act, maybe, but it’s a good one. There’s a grain of truth in there, that bashful deflation. “And told me if I’m so hungry for dick I might get lucky begging you.” 

“Wow,” Clayton blinks. “And you…you like that. When she says stuff like that.” 

The blush deepens, redder, blotchier. Chin dips and rises again. Smile’s a little wry, now. 

“Well, when you say it like _that_ , Clay, it makes me—” he stops, shakes his head, purses his lips. “Yeah. I’m into that.” 

“Wild.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“What else are you into?” 

Brian laughs, a bubbly sound of surprise, again. It’s really pleasant, the way it shakes out of him, like dusting off a favorite book. “God, you’re really something, Clay. I can’t get a fuckin’ read on you. I like fucking, okay? And I like you. I’d like to—” he reaches out “—help you with that erection you mentioned? At least?”

Clayton nods. “I’d like that.” 

He expects a hand creeping toward his pants, but Brian seems to have different idea, and hops down suddenly, dropping all the way to the floor, positioning himself on his knees. 

“No, no,” Clayton blushes, embarrassed. “I’m sweaty and gross. You can’t—that’s not a good idea. Right now.”  

Brian rolls his eyes, slides his hands up Clayton’s hips, leans into the hands that are pushing away his shoulders. “It’s fine. I don’t care.” 

“No, no thank you,” he insists, pulling Brian up. “I’d rather kiss, please.” 

Brian’s eyes are wide, as he nods, adjusts his plans. He climbs up to straddle Clayton’s lap just like with Pat’s, thread his legs through carefully, sit their bodies close, shove their lips together sudden and forceful. 

He is interesting to kiss. He’s pushy and also yielding—like he’s eager to get tongues involved, but once he does, he expects more to _be_ kissed than to keep on. Clayton finds it pleasant, to tip his chin back, explore his mouth, while Brian’s hands sneak up his shirt and he makes little sounds of pleasure. 

“You’re a good kisser, Clay,” he says breathily, when Clayton comes up for air. 

“I’m glad,” Clayton smiles, and then it gets broken up by a gasp, as Brian grinds against him. 

“What should I do next?” Brian asks, mischievously, canting his hips again. “Don’t wanna be too presumptuous.”

“Take off your shirt, please,” Clayton mumbles. “I want to—to see you.” 

Brian smiles and does, shucking it off quick in something approaching delight, and letting Clay splay his fingers on the smooth skin. It’s as lovely as he imagined, to run his hand down Brian’s slim side, to slot his thumbs in the divot of Brian’s hips. He’s up a little higher, sitting like this, looking down into Brian’s face, and his chest is still colored with a trail of hickeys. 

“Let me get my pants off too, please,” Brian begs, as Clayton flicks a nipple. “No one’s here, no one’s here. Promise.” 

“Okay,” Clayton agrees, and those come off quick too, and he steps back and flicks his hair, posing impishly, so the soft lines of his body can be appreciated, the way he’s hard against the delicate fabric. 

“You like looking at me,” he declares, and Clayton hates his little sniff-giggle, but it comes out anyway, because that’s such a silly, obvious thing to say.

“Doesn’t everyone? No—wait—” he waves Bri off, who’s responding to the praise with a cherubic smile and drawing close again.  “Stay there a sec. Just let me look.”

“Now you’re just buttering me up,” Brian grins and quirks his head. “I don’t get it. You don’t want a blowjob, you’d just like to strip me and admire me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Clayton nods to himself. “Unless you mind?” 

“No, no,” Brian tilts his chin up, spreads his arms. “Be my guest. Let me know what you’d like to see. Or touch.” 

It’s just—a lot to take in. He knows what Brian looks like, of course. Has seen him undressed _today_ . But he wasn’t really _looking_ , you see. Wasn’t studiously ignoring, either, but wasn’t letting himself see the lines of his ribs, the dark marks on light skin, his strong thighs, the appealing way he strains against his underwear.  

Brian seems to enjoy being inspected, because he raises his arms over his head, bends them at the elbow, lets them dangle loosely behind his head, as if to show off more of himself. He turns, even, a sort of flirty three-quarters, lets Clayton catch the arch of his back and his ass. 

“What’s that from,” Clayton asks, reaches out, touches a bruise peeking out from below the panties. 

“I got paddled a couple days ago,” Brian says casually, and Clayton blushes, although he really should have known. “Can’t remember why. Was naughty _somehow._ ” 

“Who,” Clay asks, even though it’s really, really, _really_ none of his business. But he can’t help wondering, and his hand’s on Brian’s ass, touching the bluish-brown thoughtfully, and there’s never gonna be another chance to ask something like that. 

“Patrick,” Brian hums quickly. “If it were Simone you’d _know_.”

Clayton indulges himself with squeezing, over the bruise, and Brian gives a light little squeal. 

“ _Ooh_ , you like that? You can spank me, if you like. I’ll _really_ feel it.” 

“No thank you,” Clayton murmurs, and lets go, pulls back. Brian’s elbows are still over his head, hands out of the way, obedient to some self-described order. “I do like the thought, though, for some reason.” 

“What d’you want me to do?” Brian asks, voice a little shy. “Touch you, touch myself?” 

“Sit on my lap,” Clay finds himself directing. “I’ll do the touching.” 

“All right, daddy,” Brian flips his hair, flirty, and then pauses. Hesitates. Like he’s said something wrong. At Clayton’s non-reaction, he worries his lip. “My bad, if that isn’t your thing. I’ve got a—” he gives a little laugh, “I’ve got a certain horny lexicon. Let me know if I should adjust.” 

“Oh, I’m always down for a vocabulary lesson.” 

Brian’s wide-open gaze shifts down a notch, eyes narrow. “ _Saucy_ , Clayton. I’m starting to learn your game.” 

“I don’t have any game,” Clay says, earnestly, reaches—the pain of not-touching Brian has been building over minutes now, a pleasant healthy pain like the burn of working muscles—but now his hand shoots out as fast as an exhausted arm dropping a dumbbell. The hip welcomes him, turns to his grip, as Brian slides himself to sit on Clayton’s lap. 

“No game is a variant of game,” Brian says sagely, before he throws his hair back onto Clayton’s shoulder, splaying himself out wide. He grabs Clay’s hand, too, and moves it over his body, suggests it a settling place on his neck. 

But Clayton too much likes the feeling, of Brian precariously spread out over his lap, taking care of his own balance. He lets his hands roam without. Fingertips, nails, palm, wrists, stroking or scratching or pawing inelegantly, just a long moment. 

Finally, he settles one hand at the rim of Brian’s show-offy panties, and another—after a moment of thought—grips his chin. Not too hard. Just directing his head. This is, apparently, a good thing to do, because Brian _sighs_ as if released from a burden and relaxes even more, rocks his hips up suggestively. 

Clay takes the suggestion, slides his hand through the dense curly hairs to find Brian’s dick. He palms it, hot and full and firmly unlike his own, just enough to make him hesitate. But Clayton’s not a _total_ ingenue, that doesn’t wrong-foot him long, he knows what to— 

“Don’t _tease_ me,” Brian whines, and cants his hips, chasing the thumb that just dragged over his length, delicately but not whispery-light. 

Hmm. Everybody likes it different, Clay supposes. But he is firmly of the belief it’s not healthy, to grip too hard and go too fast and all that. Instead, he shifts his left hand deliberately, up, presses the fingers over Brian’s mouth, and keeps on keeping on. 

My _heavens,_ Brian wiggles. He moans and slithers and _licks_ , which is surprising, and then when Clayton jumps in surprise at being licked he _bites_ , which is just absolutely wild, and throws off all his rhythm, and makes him doubt whether the fingers were really a good idea, except that when he moves them Brian whines _louder,_ and it’s really all quite a lot. 

He finds a rhythm again, when Brian settles down, stroking quite lightly and carefully until he’s sure he’s not going to drop this entire lapful of overeager horny gorgeousness. 

“Put your fingers back,” Brian presses into him, begs. “I’ll be good. I’ll be good.” 

Clayton does, because he hopes—yes, yes, the mouth he tries to cover again opens, just a smidge, lets him press a couple digits inside. Something about that is quite wonderful, if a little silly. Brian whimpering and sucking and swirling sympathetically as Clayton’s hand works him. It’s rather like his tongue moves of its own accord, especially as he gets close. 

Clay finds his own mouth hanging open, breathing hard and heavy into Brian’s temple, when he hits that last few strokes and coaxes Brian’s orgasm out. It spills out of him enthusiastically, all over his belly and Claytons’ hand—

and Brian laughs in happiness and goes so limp he really _is_ in danger of sliding to the floor—

and Clay has to scramble, messily, to hold him up—

and Brian laughs again and squeaks “ _watch out for your clothes_!”—

and Clayton moans in mock-despair “ _too late_.”    

It’s not so bad, though. It takes a half-a-box-of-tissues, cleaning up, but mostly they avoid disaster. Brian apologizes with a roguish smile that looks _not at all_ apologetic, and Clayton shrugs and says it doesn’t matter much, and finds he means it, weird stains on the subway be damned. 

“Did I seduce you?” Brian says brightly, while he’s buttoning his shirt back up, and after for the third time Clayton’s waved off attempts at reciprocation. “My evil plans come to fruition?”

Clayton laughs. “I guess. I think it might be Simone’s plan, though.” 

“She’s a co-conspirator,” Brian waves it away, as if it’s a mere complication. “Still counts as a win.” 

It makes Clay hesitate, that, because he doesn’t know if this is a game-set-match kind of win, or more like a win in an ongoing football club rivalry, and he doesn’t know how to ask that without a sports metaphor, and he doesn’t think Brian is gonna go in for sports metaphors, or if he does he’ll just twist them into endless hilarious innuendos that’re fucking amazing but don’t tell Clayton what to _do._

So he just asks straight up. 

“Not to be rude. But. Are we gonna do that again? Or are you the type to, um. Conquer and move on.” 

Brian beams again, that cat-with-the-canary look of a man who has never, not ever, not _once_ been nervous a moment in his life. 

“Come over to Pat’s on Sunday. If you want. Then he can show you just what _type_ I am.” 

Clayton blinks, but doesn’t hesitate, because he’s been around long enough to know that—when somebody asks you to do something—and it sounds interesting—and it makes your stomach lurch with nerves—but it’s probably safe, and probably fun, and also the person who’s asking is _implausibly_ wonderful—well. There’s usually a right answer.

“I’m in. What time?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have some clay/pat/bri scenes well hammered out, though i don't know if they'll go in this universe or elsewhere, because they're a little Wet and Wild. we'll seeeeee

**Author's Note:**

> aw shit i figured out anon posting on ao3 hell yeah! success. now no one will know that i'm writing 2am one-shots instead of finishing my other fics ahahaha. - fish


End file.
